Looking After
by Acid Jazz Singer
Summary: She doesn't love him yet -then again maybe she does- and he can't love her yet -he won't admit to the warm feeling that slides through his veins at the sight of her- but they are both very good at pretending. In which Zane helps Jo though a hard time. J/Z


He wants to reach out and touch her, reassure himself that she is there and she is alive and that it will all work out in the same way these things always seem to. The temptation to brush back some of her dark sweat soaked hair, to pull her close and hug her tight until she stops her trembling, is strong enough that he has had to consciously fist his hands at his side and sit at distance. They don't have that sort of relationship, he can't just act like her hero after years of playing her enemy. Even if things have changed, even if there is something going on and she is not the Jo Lupo that he once knew, he had made it clear that he had much better things to be doing than help her in her attempt to repair their unsteady relationship. He wishes he hadn't, wants more than anything to go back and take all those chances she had given him. He realizes he was being an idiot, realizes that he wanted to make her hurt and then when she _was_ he couldn't handle the emotional turmoil the knowledge plagued him with.

A few feet away she is sitting, curled up in a tight self-contained ball of trembling, body wracking sobs. She looks small, smaller than he had ever dared to think of her as and so fragile that he's afraid just _looking_ at her will cause her to shatter. He's never thoughts of her in such terms, she's never allowed for room for such terms to be applied to her, and as he watches her now he realizes just how effective she was in that endeavor. She's a tiny thing, especially in comparison to his own height and bulk, and she's just as vulnerable to pain and rejection as anyone else, she's just more adept at disguising her hurt. The fact that she's human, that she isn't some immortal, invulnerable demigoddess of justice, but flesh and bone, is a sudden, stark realization that knocks him off kilter and makes him feel sick to his stomach.

He clenches his hands a little tighter, his nails are short but he feels them biting into the flesh of his palm nonetheless.

_He doesn't know what to do. _

Everything he knows and everything he can figure out and it is all useless in the face of the latest disaster. Jo's mind has been scrambled, Eureka's latest turn for the worse having turned so much darker than usual. A device intended to stabilize those minds afflicted with chemical imbalances, a hopeful option for those afflicted with a number of psychological disorders, had been messed with. One Dr. Fields from a rival lab had jumbled with the machinery, hoping to cause setbacks in testing (and ultimately for the whole project to be shut down and the head scientist shuffled off to another section) so that his own research would be thrust in the spot light. Instead it caused the device to go haywire, the frequencies meant to soothe out the wrinkles of the mind causing those in the nearby area to have their own brains put into a blender of chemical ups and downs.

While others had simply been affected by the lower levels seeping out of the lab, Jo had been in there, hit full blast. The head of the project had spotted the damage and before the demonstration for Fargo had called Jo as head of Security to look into the vandalism. She had been inspecting the device (not knowing anything about the mechanics of the thing but able to recognize a clue from a mile away) and a casual bump from a nosy lab assistant had the machinery whirring to life and chaos ensuing. Those inside the lab (two lab assistants, a psychologist and Jo) had felt the brunt of the latest in Eureka disasters. While the majority of the thirty-odd afflicted experienced minor (comparatively) symptoms ranging from splitting migraines to paranoia to scattered hallucinations, Jo and the other three were worse, _much_ worse.

It took them (those left to figure it all out, Carter, Allison, Henry, Fargo and himself) the hour or so of rounding up everyone acting like escaped lunatics to realize what had happened. It took seconds after the realization to think of Jo and her absence and her presence in the lab earlier. With Allison, Fargo and Henry taking care of those effected and finding a cure he and Carter had gone to look for Jo, hoping fruitlessly that she had somehow been spared the horror of having her mind torn apart from the inside out. Carter had questioned him on his insistence to look for her, the sheriff's eyes certain and secretive, as if the man already knew the answer. Zane hated that look (he wondered how Zoe and Jo ever handled it) and instead of admitting his concern for the one woman who had actually meant something to him (he didn't know what it was exactly, she wouldn't _tell_ him, but she meant _something_) he shrugged and muttered a half hearted explanation that he didn't want to be tazered by her after everything was said and done. It was a ridiculous excuse, they both had known, but the Sheriff had the decency to not point it out.

They split up, hoping to cover more ground and find her faster. Carter had searched her office, apparently finding the place savagely torn apart. Pictures and awards thrown carelessly to the floor, her computer smashed to pieces, whether it was Jo herself to cause the damage or one of the others that had been hit was unknown, but Carter phoned him to warn that their girl could be violent. Zane had suppressed a laugh, Jo and violence tended to go hand in hand. The laugh had died in his throat as he thought of the others, and how Jo Lupo could be just like them. It had made him feel dizzy, off kilter with the sudden knowledge that he probably couldn't take it if she _was _just as shattered as the other three.

He's the one that finds her.

He had hacked into the security system and, searching the video files, found her stumbling, disoriented out of the lab. She's not so bad for a while (he watches her, moving from video to video as she shuffles through the halls of Global) a little confused, a little off, but alright. She ended up in her office and he had watched (horrified) as the full effects of the device takes hold and she falls into hysterics. Carter had been right, she is the one responsible for ransacking of her office. What Carter didn't know, hadn't seen, was the look of anguish on her face as she destroys everything that meant something to her. Zane had watched, feeling more and more sick by the second, as she tore away the plaques and pictures from the wall. She had never said, never told him, but he knew that they were important. Memories of her life, markers of how hard she had fought for the position she now held, shattered and tossed about in a frenzied desperation. He had fast forwarded the images until he saw her leave, follows her troubled form as she exited the building, ignoring her car and instead running, wildly as if the demons of hell where after her, fleeing into the distance. He had called Carter to tell him, already on his way to town in the hopes of finding her.

He does, she's outside the demolished sight that her house once stood on, digging at the scarred ground as if doing so will reveal her missing home. Perhaps hoping to find more than just a house, but a life she lost.

She screams when he tries to stop her, pulling at her arms in attempts to save her bloody, scratched hands from further damage, and slams her dirty fists against his chest as he drags her back to his car. She's hysterical, unlike anything he's ever seen before, babbling about things he doesn't understand as she cried, her tears leaving streaks in the dirt that had managed to smudge the dust on her face. When he calls Carter again he finds out that the same sabotage that caused their current crisis is what has ultimately lead them to a cure. Unlike the permanent shift in the brain's chemicals, this was temporary and the only thing that could really be done was to wait. Upon hearing the news Zane made a split second decision, glancing into the rear view mirror to the woman flailing and screaming in the back seat, and informed the Sheriff that he wasn't taking Jo to Global. She would be confined to a bed, sedated, she needed something a little more comforting than that when she came back to herself. He took her to the old cabin he once stayed in as a child, knowing that being seen by the rest of the town, or anyone really, in such a state was something she won't be able to handle when she snaps out of it. He brought Jo inside (quite literally kicking and screaming) with as much care as he could with her blind punches and struggling.

She all but destroyed the place. He watched, ducked and dodged (as needed) while she took out her frantic rage on anything and everything in sight. He locked the door, not willing to let her run out on him again, and did his best to stay out of her way. Talking, he had seen in the car, was an exercise in futility. He couldn't reach her, or she wasn't willing to be reached. And then things turned, somehow, worse. Something clicked in her head, somehow a few scattered pieces fell into place. The crazed anxiousness connecting with the cool logic buried deep within her head. She was trapped and cornered and out of her element, and if he could claim to know anything about Jo Lupo, it was that The Enforcer did not respond well to such situations. Not well at all.

In one moment she was kicking the kitchen table over, in the next she was reaching back and yanking her .45 Colt Double Eagle out of its place at the small of her back like a child pulling her security blanket up over her head. He had been in the situation before, once, twice, a thousand and one times. One prank too many, one comment too far, and he was up against a wall, cuffs flying and tazer at the ready. Only this time it was the barrel of her gun, and this time being locked up in a cell wasn't what he had to worry about.

She spun in a circle, wide and stumbling, and he heard the roar of the gun as she blindly let out a shot into the ceiling. He lurched to the side, hands over head instinctively, and she set the site of her gun on him. He could feel the crosshairs on him, see the lost look in her eyes. Jo Lupo, he realized, was not home right now. The Enforcer, the woman of steel, the one-person-guerilla-army, had well and truly gone under, and he _didn't know what to do. _He doesn't know her, not as well as she knows him, and he isn't sure he's going to survive long enough to get them on equal footing.

She had begun shifting, uneasy, like a big cat backed in a corner, fidgeting and ready to go on the offensive. He had held his hands up, eyes fixing on the weapon she held unsteadily. He could, he knew, try and take it from her. She wasn't in the best state, she wasn't the unstoppable creature he is used to. He might be able to lung, take her off guard, pin her to the ground. He lifted his gaze, met her eyes, and felt his gut twist painfully. He couldn't do it to her, at least, not yet, not when he had another option.

He talked her down. Honestly he isn't sure how he did it, didn't have a clue he could manage to form so many sentences together that didn't have an ounce of snark or attitude. He went on and on, voice even and soft and held so much more patience than he had ever had the attention span for before in his life. He reminded her of who he was, of Eureka and GD and all the other parts of her life that she didn't seem to be able to connect to any more. He reminded her of Founder's Day. Of how she came in and said she would marry him, did she really want to shoot the man she promised she would marry? He spoke of so many things, things he had not even allowed _himself_ to think about. How he had been thinking about her, about how he had been trying to figure her out, about how when she had gotten shot (or, not shot but _whatever_) he hadn't been able to sleep properly for two weeks and had barely kept himself together when he had found out she had been wheeled away into surgery. Word after word, falling out of his mouth without any consent from his brain. He told her how he had figured it out, about how he knew she wasn't from this timeline and that The Kiss (because something like that _needed_ capitals) had been so much more than an experiment, _so much more_.

Something worked, maybe all of it, he'll never really know. She began lowering the gun, brow furrowed, frown deep and sad as she began to shake. She backed away from him, dropping her gun (he was terrified that it would go off, that a bullet would launch itself from the chamber and burrow itself in her heart or head) and fleeing backwards down the hall. It was, in a way, exactly what he wanted (for her to put the gun down and get the both of them out of immediate danger) and of course it was the exact _opposite_ of what he had _hoped _for (that she would break through the haze, that she would really _see_ him, that he would finally get some answers).

He grabbed her gun, removed the remaining bullets and hid it in the freezer (he can't find anything else in one piece, and he figured its bizarre enough she won't think to look there in such a state) before he even considered following her back to the bedrooms. He hadn't heard the telltale sound of her destroying anything else, and he was pretty certain that he needed a moment just as much as she does. He didn't want to leave her alone for too long, chances were she had more than one gun on her person, and she counted as several different kinds of lethal weapons all on her own. Being careful not to make too much noise and spook her, he had crept down the hall to where she had fled moments before.

He found her in his old room, silent other than the occasional sob, and curled away in the corner, nearly out of sight in the shadow of the dying light filtering in through dingy windows. Uncertainly, he sat down along the same wall, feet and feet of open air separating them. All he could think to do was wait.

She hasn't moved much since then. Leaving them where they started with her in the corner of this sparse room as he sits on the floor nearby wanting nothing more than to help her with no real way of being able to. She is still crying, still mad as a hatter, but he thinks the tears are less, thinks that her small whimpers are beginning to quiet little by little. Neither of them have said a word, total silence (other than her not-quite-words) has settled over them, unbroken for nearly an hour. He doesn't know what the time is, doesn't know how long they have been here or how long it has been since this whole mess has started. Taking in her trembling frame he wonders if she even knows he's there.

He sighs to himself, looking down at his fisted hands and spies red seep up between his calloused fingers. Forcing his hands to open he sees small crescents in the heel of his hand, he hadn't even noticed that he had broken the skin in his constant vigil over her. He studies his hands carefully for a moment, pausing before he finally whips away the excess blood on his jeans, it mingles with the small splotches of muddy brown. Her blood, dried from where it had dropped from her sliced palms. The thought makes him sick, the whole damn situation makes him sick.

"Zane?"

He jumps, startled by the soft sound and his gaze is on her in an instant. She is still curled up about herself like a child, still pressed against the wall like she wants to be swallowed up by the structure of his cabin, but she is _looking_ at him, she is there, clawing her way to the surface. His breath catches in his chest painfully, his whole body freezes as he realizes that he's able to recognize something of the real Jo Lupo he knows and (he won't say The Word that comes to his mind, he _can't_) misses behind her dark eyes. She doesn't meet his gaze, her eyes tracing the lines of read still bubbling up on his palms. He wants to move over to her, get closer and check to make sure that she'll be okay. She's won't be, he knows she won't be for a while, but he wants to _see_ _**her**_, wants to reach out and touch her and _make_ her better. "I'm here. Jo?" He moves, rocks up onto his feet to stand but stops in a crouch as he realizes she's stiffened up at his movement.

For a moment he thinks she's fallen back, the haze dragging her back in, but then she meets his gaze and he finds the spark that left her when her sanity fled. His breath leaves his body in one solid _whoosh_ and it takes him seconds to remember to breathe again. He moves closer, slowly and uncertainly and she tracks his movement with a silent scrutiny. She doesn't say anything, not even as he blatantly invades her personal space, but takes in every twitch of his muscles and every calculating gaze. Silence falls again, she is staring him up in down with an unreadable expression, still pressed fast against the wall. She isn't completely better, isn't going to be for a while, but she's talking, and she's not threatening to castrate him anymore so that means something for him, right?

She has been holding his gaze for an untellable amount of time, he suddenly wonders if she can turn off her need to blink at will. It wouldn't surprise him. "You're bleeding." He blinks at that, learning back in surprise as he tries to comprehend. Her eyes dart away from his face, head tucking down so that her line of sight lays solely on his hands. She reaches out, not quite hesitant but without even a hundredth of the usual Lupo certainty he has seen a thousand times before. It is simple a motion, a series of signals sent from her brain to her hand without any real meaning behind it. He holds his breath, watching her with fascination. Her fingers are blackened by dirt, nails chipped and broken, he doesn't care, even as she gently turns his palms upwards and traces the fresh marks on his skin causing them sting painfully. She pauses, blinking slowly as if thought takes a great deal of effort (which he has no doubt it does, considering what she has been through) and turns her own hand upward, laying it down side by side with his, their palms facing upwards. The flesh of her hand was barely there, lost beneath red and black, the skin split and still bleeding. The pain in the heel of his hand is immense, just from a few small cuts, he can't imagine how badly her hands must feel, nor can he imagine how she seems to only be able to summon a faint disinterest.

"I almost shot you." Her voice is soft, not stoic but a shade dangerously close to being so. He can just make out the tremble in her voice, see a shimmer come to her eyes, see the emotions finally bubble up to the surface. "I almost killed you. I-I..." She retracts her hands, a strangled noise escaping her as she buries her bloody fingers into her hair, tufts of her dirtied black locks flying up wildly between her fingers. She squeezes her eyes closed tightly, bowing her head and (this is it, he's lost her again, Carter was wrong, Allison and Henry and Fargo were _wrong_ because she _isn't_ _getting better_ and it's _breaking his heart_) she falls into him with a body wracking sob.

He's startled, eyes widening, and it takes him a moment to adjust, to reach out and hold her as she releases her hold on her hair and fists his shirt in her hands instead. Her face presses tightly against his chest, hot tears staining the fabric of his shirt and burning his skin beneath. She sobs, not like before, not in the manic hysterical way, but in the way of the heartbroken, of the truly regretful who can't cope with the past. Her whole body shakes, flinching ever so often when he moves to rub her back, tuck her in closer to him. She smells slightly of sweat and fear, but as he presses his face against her hair he can detect something beneath that. Gunpowder and shampoo and the subtle hints of what is so inevitably _Jo_ that it makes him close his eyes, makes him take in deep lungful of air, trying to capture it and hold it.

He doesn't want to move for a long time, only wants to sit there and hold her and feel the very rare sensation of her _wanting_ to be held by him. Eventually though, as the light fades and shifts into golden red and slips lower on the walls and she begins to relax in his hold, he decides that they need to move. Careful not to jostle her too badly he shifts their positions, gathering her up in his arms and moves to stand. She barely weighs anything and he's surprised. He forgets, she makes people forget with her larger-than-life presence and unshakable steadiness and certainty, that she's really a tiny thing. Her frame is slim, despite the power that lies within each and every muscle, most of her height comes from the high, high, _high_ heeled (but still strangely practical) boots, most of _her_ is hidden beneath well honed deceptions and half-truths. Mask upon mask upon mask.

He doubts, in that moment, that even _she_ knows who the real Jo Lupo is beneath it all.

With little effort he takes her to the large bathroom down the hall, avoiding letting her see the damage she has done in the rest of the cabin. She is unresponsive in his hold, not asleep, but in a state somewhere close to catatonic, it worries him more than her hysterical gun waving earlier had. He pushes it away, at least for the moment, and instead focuses on gently setting her on the counter of the bathroom beside the sink. She slumps there, back leaning against the mirror, eyes staring at the wall across from her distantly. He moves to grab a washcloth and the first aid kit from beneath the sink, turning the knob on the old thing and allowing the rusted water to run until it became clear and warm before moving on to her. Soaking the cloth he glances up at her, still unmoving, still not blinking. Perhaps he should take lessons, he would never lose a staring contest again. Trying his best to not do any more damage he gently takes her hand and begins to wipe away the dirt and grime, before cleaning the wounds with alcohol. He knows it must sting like hell, despite his best efforts, he knows that she will need to go into the Infirmary and receive proper care if she wants her hands to not be scared beyond repair, she doesn't even flinch. It makes him wince as he completes his less than perfect medical treatment, wrapping up her battered appendage in gauze before repeating the whole process with her other hand.

He's in the middle of dabbing on the alcohol on her second hand when she finally speaks again, eyes shifting to where he was carefully working. "Lingerie." Her voice is hoarse, and as he lifts his gaze to her face in startled confusion (seriously? after an entire day of crazy she decides that she needs more bizarre statements added on top?) she clears her throat. "You bought me Lingerie. Boxes and boxes of it. I got mad at you, but you saved the town and then asked me out and you were so awkward and confidant...and _you_ I said yes." He's still for a long time, not entirely sure what she is doing. He had bought her lingerie, the first couple of days in Eureka from his cell, she had freaked out and tried to shoot him. He never bothered asking her out on a date, there had been no point, he knew where he had stood with her, knew he had no chance. "We went to brunch, on Sunday. I wore a dress, a sundress, for church. You made fun of me for going, made me feel like an idiot." The words spill out of her mouth, one falling out after another, and he realizes that she's telling him. Finally, explaining everything that she has been refusing for so long. He asked her out, she said yes, he ruined their first date. She talked and talked, told him everything, never looking at him, only watching as - after getting a grip on himself - he continues his ministrations on her hand.

He has the urge to tell her to wait, let him grab a voice recorder, paper and pen, anything to try and remember what she is saying, doesn't want to miss a thing. He doesn't though, doesn't risk interrupting her, losing this chance. So instead he stands by, listening, barely able to breath as she tells him _everything._ How they first kissed, how she told him she loved him and he had run, how they had survived Eureka time and time again. Her words were even, not so loud or so quiet, but a steady cadence that is soothing in the wake of the day. He can tell she is trying very, very hard not to break down again.

And then she gets to Founder's Day.

The Sheriff's office made up to look like it had the day they met, lingerie box with ring inside, a perfect little speech that suited them and, and, _and he ran out before she could answer him_. She froze but he, he _left her there_, took off before he even got an answer, one way or the other.

It wasn't until her watery, hazel eyes met his that he realizes he has cupped her cheek and tilted her head up to look at him. He wants to kiss her, not romantically, or even heatedly, but just to stop her tears and make her smile. He wants her to look at him, _really_ look at _him_, not the man she saw when she looked past him. He almost does kiss her then, even leans in to do so, but he stops himself as she finds her voice once more.

"You're not him. You're not _like him._" He freezes, not daring to move as her words fill the silent air. They're soft, nearly a whisper. They stab him in the heart. "He was a good man, one of the best. He loved me. I loved him and that will _never_ change. _Never._" She shakes her head as she speaks, shaking his hand away gently, he feels his chest tighten painfully as his hand falls back to his side. "He was smart, and brilliant and," Her hand is warm as it touches his arm, he looks down at where they are connected before looking back up, surprised by the fire in her gaze. This, _this_ was Jo Lupo. "And he never trusted me."

He blinks, mouth dry, and waits as she searches his gaze carefully. "He never trusted me, get that through your thick skull Donavon. He took off and left me standing there because he didn't believe in me enough to let me think about things. What I told you, before, it hasn't changed. He and I...we didn't fit, not...not completely." She takes a shaky breath, hand drifting up his arm and setting against his neck, her eyes flicking downward for a moment. "We both had..._expectations_ for the other, I guess. Both of us wanted the other to fit in this neat little box and, and it just didn't _work_." She leaned forward, her forehead pressing against his as she closed her eyes for a long moment. "And you...you're different than he is. Not better or worse but just..._different_. You two _aren't_ the same person." Her hand drifted up further, to his cheek before sliding up and tangling into his hair.

This time he does kiss her.

And it isn't like before, isn't like their first kiss, their thousandth kiss, whatever. It's soft and sweet and tentative and everything a first kiss (a real, proper first kiss) should be. It feels perfect, it _is_ perfect.

She moves to deepen it and before he can't stop himself and things go too far too fast he pulls back. For a moment she looks confused, then hurt flickers across her face and he feels her tensing (ready to run) and before she can take off he wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her to him, tucking her head beneath his as he sighs. He wants to continue, wants to follow her train of thought all the way to its glorious end in his bed down the hall with their clothes marking their path, but she's still unstable. And for all he knows by the time the sun rises she could regain her bearings and decide that this was all some terrible mistake brought on by yet another Eureka disaster. He doesn't want that, doesn't want to make her hurt any more than she already is. No matter what she might say, she's damaged, and it will take time for the deep wounds to finally heal.

He opens his mouth, planning on explaining, when he hears his favorite song blasting from his pocket and jumps. Cursing he pulls away from her and scrambles to grab the device. It's Carter, well meaning, everyman Jack Carter and even though the Sheriff means well, and even though all he is doing is calling to check on Jo (who might as well be the man's second daughter) all Zane wants to do is scream obscenities before hanging up and throwing the phone out the window. He doesn't though (and he feels a great deal of pride at the self restraint he is showing), instead explaining that Jo is better and that they are up at his old cabin and they'll be back soon. He thinks Carter sounds infuriatingly knowing when he tells him that they can take their time and not to worry about hurrying back.

When he finally hangs up she's gotten to her feet (albeit looking like a new born foal as she does so) and is glaring at her reflection. Shoving his phone back he catches her eye in the mirror, she scrunches her nose. "I look like I went partying in a dumpster," She sniffed lightly at her clothes. "Uh, and I smell worse." He smirks a little, not finding fault with either attribute, and shifts a little awkwardly.

"Obviously nothing's going to fit you, but..." He shrugs, "I have some spare clothes if you want to take a shower." Her eyes lit up a little, a thankful (however tied) smile lighting her face as she glanced longingly to the large shower beside her. She looks incredibly tired, looks ready to drop at any given moment and he feels his own body tingle with the need to sleep. "I'll grab you a towel and stuff, just watch the water temperature, it can get a little finicky."

She nods, glancing to the knobs that shone dully against the pristine porcelain of the old tub. "Thank you." He nods back, shuffling awkwardly, before turning to leave. She puts a hand on his arm, stopping him. Turning back he finds her looking at him urgently, quietly trying to make him understand her thoughts. He waits (not for long, she isn't going to make him wait for answers anymore it seems) for her to speak. "I mean, for _everything_. I..." She bites her lip, struggling for words. "I'm glad it was you that..." She trailed off, uncertain on how to finish the sentence. He understood all the same.

Smiling he nods, taking her hand and squeezing gently.

By the time he comes back with the towel and clothes steam fills the room and he can see her shadow through the shower curtain. He's tempted to sneak in with her, strip down and jump in and let all the heat he felt all in that kiss they shared so many weeks ago take over. He doesn't, controls himself, and stacks everything on top of the counter before leaving quickly. Instead of joining her he moves to the kitchen to survey the damage. It will take a hell of a long time to get everything sorted out, but he really doesn't mind. Having his place destroyed was worth it if she was going to be okay. Picking his way through the room he begins gathering things up, moving his way from kitchen to the living room and back again mindlessly. By the time she pads her way down from the bathroom, hair dripping and skin smelling of his soap, he has managed to gather up the worst of the shattered glass. She pauses in the doorway that separated the kitchen from the bedrooms, suddenly very still.

Glancing up at her he is surprised to see that she has forgone the long flannel pants he has brought and has instead chosen to wear only the overly large shirt he had supplied her with. His eyes flick away from the long legs he so rarely gets to see and up to her face, wincing at the stricken look she has. Her wrapped hands (she must have rewrapped them after her shower) are clenched tightly at her side, eyes focusing on the ruined room before her. For a moment he thinks she is going to be sick, she looked pale enough, and he quickly puts the various knickknacks he is holding down and moves over to her, blocking her view with his larger frame. "Jo-"

"I almost shot you_._" He has hoped that she had (somehow) forgotten about that. He's about to argue but she shakes her head, angry with herself. "No, Zane. I almost shot you. I almost _killed_ you." She stares a hole in his shirt, refusing to meet his gaze. He sets his hands on her shoulders, trying very hard to get her to look at him.

"No. You didn't, didn't even come close." It wasn't a lie, no matter the look she gives him (or how scared he had been at the time). He doesn't know her well, but he knows her well enough. Jo Lupo is always in control, even when she is completely _out_ of control. It's just who she is. "You may have left a nice hole in my kitchen ceiling, but you weren't even close." Her jaw is clenching hard enough that he thinks her teeth must be ready to snap under the pressure. He tightens his hold on her just a little and she finally looks up at him. At his fierce look she jerks her head in a vaguely nod-like motion, though he knows she is hardly convinced. He moves her, nudging her to turn back to the hallway. "Come on, we'll deal with the mess tomorrow. Let's go to bed."

She stiffens a bit as he speaks and he winces a little at his choice of words. They are still in the grey zone. Having so much history, both good and bad, and still just barely being able to consider each other acquaintances. Shoulder's tensing he continues to lead her, past his childhood bedroom, and instead to the large master bedroom at the rear of the building. He leaves her standing just inside the doorway, moving about the room to show her where this and that it, pointing to the lamp that flickers every now and then, to the closet that has the spare blankets should she get too cold. He realizes she hasn't said anything and he turns, dreading the uncomfortable look she will undoubtedly have. She's examining the bureau where he has proudly displayed a myriad of photos. He coughs a little. "I'll grab some of the blankets and sleep on the couch."

Her gaze snaps to him, fear creeping into her expression as her entire frame tenses. "No." He blinks surprised and she blinks herself, color staining her cheeks lightly at how desperate her tone sounds. "No, you don't..." She curls her hands around her arms self consciously, the shirt rising up a little on her thigh as she did so. "I, I just..." She shuffled a little, looking at her feet. "I don't...want to be alone..."

Her tone explains it all, the humiliation at being human, the fear of being left to stew alone with her own mind, the lost look. His heart hurt a little and he nods, not knowing what else to do. Moving towards her, he reaches out, gently tucking her against his side before leading her to the bed. They don't say anything as they curl up beneath the covers, quietly trying not to make the situation any more awkward than it could potentially be. She sighs tiredly against his chest, burrowing close to him as he tucks her head beneath his chin, arms wrapping around her. They'll pretend, at least for the night, that what they have is normal and the life they lead is completely unaffected by crazy technologies going haywire and disasters occurring every other day.

She doesn't love _him_ yet (then again maybe she does) and he _can't_ love her yet (he won't admit to the warm feeling that slides through his veins at the sight of her) but they are both very good at pretending. They will have to talk in the morning, have to figure out where they stand with each other and what they want to do with the messed up situation that Eureka has landed them in. But now they're both exhausted, too tired by the day to really deal with anything.

So he holds her tight and she curls around him and they both pretend they don't hear the other whispering that powerful four letter word that changes everything and in the morning they'll sit down over eggs and coffee. He'll slide a diamond ring across the battered table to her silently and she won't say anything but he will know anyway and she'll ask him what his plans for dinner are.

And they will figure it out.


End file.
